


i had a dream about a burning house

by witchgrassi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Cora Hale - Freeform, David Hale - Freeform, Derek Hale - Freeform, Everyone Is Alive, Laura Hale - Freeform, M/M, No Kate Argent, No Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Peter hale - Freeform, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Song fic, Stiles is a seer, Talia hale - Freeform, a rewrite of burning house, also, bc fuck kate, claudia stilinski dies sorry, idc if that name isnt canon, not graphic tho, this is the same as my other fic but better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchgrassi/pseuds/witchgrassi
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Stiles has dreamt of the house in the woods.(this is a rewrite of my 2016 fic Burning House)https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464744 - here is a link to the original if you're interested!
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	i had a dream about a burning house

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! so, if you read my fic Burning House (linked below) then you're already familiar with what I'm posting. I've become a much better writer since posting the original fic, and i wanted to go back and see how different it would be if i rewrote it five years later. (spoiler alert, it's a lot different).
> 
> i'm going to be posting this in chapters because it is way too long for me to tackle all at once. it will definitely end up being more than 5 chapters, but i was getting overwhelmed trying to figure out how many to put, so for now, it's at 5.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464744 - here is a link to the original if you're interested!

Stiles Stilinski was four years old the first time he dreamt of the house in the woods.

He was stumbling through the woods, tripping over branches and swatting at the fireflies that twinkled around his face. A few times he tripped over gnarled roots or got tangled up in vines. He never stopped walking, though. He had just managed to catch a firefly in one grubby palm when he heard the first screams.

Curious, he kept walking. After a few minutes of struggling to get through the thicket, he stumbled out into a clearing, landing hard on his knees when his foot got caught under the root of a large tree. He felt tears well up in his eyes, threatening to fall when something soft landed on his hand. He looked at it closely. It was dark gray and felt like sand against his skin. He looked up towards the sky, his eyes mirrors that reflected the sky snowing ash.

The heat on his skin was what made him keep walking. After a while, he stopped in front of a house. There were flames climbing up the sides, and thick tendrils of smoke curling out of every window. As the fire roared and the house started to buckle, Stiles heard a loud banging sound coming from a window near the back of the house.

He went towards the sound, the heat of the flames making his forehead slick with sweat. Soon, he saw the source of the noise. A young boy, maybe a few years older than Stiles, was banging on a window at the base of the house. Through the smoke, Stiles could only see his eyes flash gold, his mouth open and screaming for help. His face was dark like it was hidden by a shadow. All Stiles could see were his eyes.

Scared, Stiles stumbled backward as more blacked-out faces appeared in the window, as more hands pushed against the glass. He screamed along with them as the house groaned one last time before the roof caved in.

“Stiles, wake up, come on honey, wake up.” He opened his eyes, blinking away sleep as his mom stroked his hair. “What is it, baby? Did you have a bad dream?” she asked, pressing a kiss to his temple. He let her hold him, still crying, still coughing from the smoke as he thought about the boy from the house covered in flames.

He had the same nightmare every single night that week, and then they stopped, just as suddenly as they had started.

* * *

The nightmares returned when Stiles turned eight.

He had been at the mall with his dad the entire day so his mom could rest. He had only just wiggled out of his dad’s tight grip so he could run ahead towards the arcade. He was right outside the door, already being sucked in by the overwhelming stench of butter-drenched popcorn and fizzy Mountain Dew. Before he could go inside, he heard someone yelling. There wasn’t much that could drag Stiles away from a pocketful of quarters and Pac-Man marathon but gossip was one of them. He had always been curious and his mom always said that curiosity was a good thing, so he didn’t feel bad about eavesdropping. 

He walked towards the voices until he reached a crowd of people staring and whispering. He pushed his way through the crowd until he managed to get on the front lines. There were two men standing chest to chest, just like Batman and the Joker in his favorite comic. He took a deep breath when one of the men smiled, showing a mouth of sharp, jagged teeth stretched wide. Stiles knew evil when he saw it, and he knew that that man was nothing but trouble. The other guy seemed much nicer, like his dad. His dad may be a cop but he was a big softie, especially when there was ice cream involved.

The old guy was talking and Stiles shuffled closer so he could hear.

"I'm warning you, David, if I hear a single complaint out of anyone in Beacon Hills that your pack has stepped out of line, I'll deal with it personally. And you won't like the results of that, I assure you," David, kept his expression neutral as the old man threatened him.

Stiles felt his jaw slowly drop when a kid stepped out from behind David. Stiles thought he looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He was older than Stiles, maybe even a 5th grader. Stiles was jealous, he was only in 2nd grade and he hated it. The boys were mean and liked to shove leaves down his pants. When the kid spoke, Stiles shivered.

"Dad, can we go? People are staring and I..." The younger boy trailed off as he met Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles waved at the boy, making a circle with his finger, and pointing at the old guy. Derek snickered but quickly shut his mouth when the old guy noticed him.

"And you must be Derek, right? My name is Gerard. I’m a friend of your dads,” he said, his voice overly kind in a way that made Stiles want to throw up. He cringed when Gerard tried to shake Derek’s hand and was silently relieved when David grabbed Gerard’s arm, stopping him from touching Derek.

"Keep your filthy hands away from my son,” he said, his voice barely above a growl. “We know the code and we don’t need you to remind us about it every time we see each other in public. Come on Derek,” he said. David grabbed Derek’s hand and pulled him away from Gerard, moving through the crowd, which parted easily for them.

Stiles watched Derek as he followed behind his dad. He had just taken a step forward when a hand grabbed his shoulder, dragging him backward. He shrieked, trying to get out of the grip until he saw his dad standing over him.

“Dad, you know you shouldn’t just grab me like that, it makes me feel like I’m gonna get kidnapped,” he said, scowling at his father. His dad laughed and steered him towards the food court. Stiles whined, making grabby hands towards the arcade.

“Believe me, Mieczyslaw, if someone kidnapped you, they’d have you back within the hour,” he joked, ignoring Stiles’ scandalized look.

“I thought I told you to call me Stiles.”

* * *

Later that night, Stiles woke up in the same forest he’d dreamt of many times before.

This time, he was ready. He took off through the woods, running as fast as he could towards the house he knew he’d find in flames. He got there fast, he was a lot taller now and it was easier to jump over the roots of the trees.

He didn’t bother to stop and smother the sparks that rained down from above. He winced as they singed his shoulders and hands, but he kept running until he got to the basement window. He grabbed hold of the latch and cried out in pain as it burned him.

Desperately, he shrugged off his shirt and wrapped it around his hands as he slammed his fist against the window. The boy’s face appeared again, still hidden in the shadows; his eyes stilled glowed bright gold as he looked right at Stiles. He couldn’t see him, though, he just stared right through him, punching the glass, and screaming.

Stiles let his hand rest against the window, staring hopelessly at the boy. Almost simultaneously, a tear slid down each of their cheeks before the familiar groan tore through the night air as the house fell around them.

* * *

Stiles jolted awake, his throat raw from screaming and inhaling smoke. He looked around wildly, waiting for his mom to run in his room. He looked around, startled when he realized that he wasn’t in his room. He was still in the woods.

Scared, he went to push up on his hands but buckled down in pain. He choked on a sob as he looked at his hands. They were bright red and covered in burning blisters. He fell back on his knees and sat down, hugging himself and rocking back and forth, trying to wake up. Suddenly, there was a loud _crack_ of a tree branch breaking. He scrambled backward, attempting to hide behind a tree.

He could hear someone calling out for him, but he stayed quiet, looking around for the source of the noise. If he were still dreaming, someone could be out there trying to hurt him like they had hurt the boy.

"Hey, I think I see him!" Stiles screamed as he was grabbed from behind.

“Let go of me! Mom, Dad, help me!” He started swinging his fists and punching the person holding him, trying his best to break out of their grip.

“Stiles! Stiles, stop, it’s me!” Stiles stopped and let himself be spun around. His dad was standing there holding on to his shoulders. He threw himself into his dad's arms, crying from relief, but also from pain. He let his dad pick him up and he lasted a full minute before he passed out from the pain in his hands

* * *

Stiles woke up in the Beacon Hills Hospital four hours later. His throat was dry and sore and he could barely make a sound. He tried to move, but the thick bandages covering his hands made it hard to push himself up on the pillows. There were tubes sticking out of his arms and an oxygen mask covering his nose.

"Mom?" He managed to ask, trying hard not to cough from the scratchy feeling in his throat. His mom looked up quickly and let out a sigh of relief.

"Stiles, oh god, you scared me so bad. What were you doing in the woods? We looked for you all night and we couldn't find you, I thought someone had taken you,” she said, pulling him into the best hug she could manage without hurting him or undoing any of the wires attached to him.

"I think I was sleepwalking. I had a dream about a house in the woods. It was on fire. I saw the boy from the mall, his house fell on top of him,” he said, still disoriented from pain medicine and fear.

"But what happened to your hands, baby? Your dad found covered in cuts and bruises and burns all over your palms," she looked at Stiles, searching for some answer. He just shrugged.

“Maybe it was from the house,” he said. He let his head fall back against the pillow. She looked skeptical. She stood up suddenly and said she was going to tell his doctor he was awake. He watched her leave the room before staring at the ceiling. How did he get burned?

It couldn’t have been from his dream. That didn’t make any sense. You couldn’t get hurt from a dream. If that were possible Stiles would already be dead. But still… he couldn’t explain it. 

* * *

Stiles had just turned thirteen when he met Derek Hale. He was running through the halls of Beacon Hills Middle, trying to catch up with his best friend Scott. They had a weekly competition that whoever got to Scott’s house first would get five dollars at the end of the week. Stiles usually let Scott win since his asthma made it hard for him to ride his bike fast, but he had to make a show of trying so Scotty wouldn’t get mad. He had just rounded a corner, headed for the double doors when he ran right into someone, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"Dude, watch where you’re going!" Stiles groaned dramatically but sat up when the other person spoke. He rubbed the back of his elbow where it had smacked against the tile and grinned at the other boy. He stood up to help the other kid pick up his books when he realized who it was.

“Oh, Derek! Hey!” he said, handing him an Algebra textbook. Derek looked at him funny. His eyebrows moved angrily as he looked at Stiles.

“How do you know my name?” he asked. Stiles scoffed and picked up the rest of the papers that he had dropped. He shoved them into his bookbag and looked back up at Derek. He was still giving Stiles the hairy eyeball, so he held up his hands in defense.

“You’re the coolest kid in school, everyone knows who you are,” he said. Stiles was surprised to see Derek blush. Instead of answering, he huffed out a breath and pushed past Stiles, walking quickly towards the lockers.

“Bye Derek!” he called, turning, and running back towards the doors. If he hurried, maybe he still had a chance to let Scott win instead of losing for real.

* * *

After playing Call of Duty at Scott’s house for a few hours and refusing to even think about his math test the next day, Stiles rode his bike home. His dad was still at work, so he made himself made a box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese for dinner. He tried to study, really he did, but he ended up falling asleep with his math textbook open beside him.

Stiles recognized the dream he was in before he opened his eyes. There was the same acrid stench of smoke and ash raining from the sky, the same heat that singed the hairs on his arms. He ran his index finger over the scars on his palm, remembering the pain that had stayed with him the last time he was here. Finally, he opened his eyes. He looked around, shocked. He wasn’t in the field where he usually started his dream. This time, he was inside the house.

He looked around, confused. The dream had never changed before. It was always the same, he’d wake up in the woods and race to the house where he stared at the boy as the house collapsed, unable to catch his attention or do anything to save him.

He shuffled forward, hesitant to explore the house further. It felt wrong being inside under these circumstances, even though he was in his own dream. Slowly, he made his way through the front hallway, careful to not touch the walls, ducking to avoid the flames that crawled along the ceiling. Even though he could feel the heat and see the smoke in the air, he was breathing normally. As he looked down at his body, he realized he was surrounded by a pale, glowing light. It was almost like a shield. It stopped the smoke from burning his lungs and suffocating him.

He was still staring at the light surrounding him when the banging started. He walked quicker now, out of the front hall, and towards the door that he somehow knew led to the basement. He held out a hand and let it hover over the door handle to gauge the heat coming off it. To his surprise, it was cool to the touch.

He grasped the handle and swung the door open. He felt his jaw drop as he looked down into the basement. There had to be a dozen people down there, some banging on windows, some still slapping at the air, almost like they were still banging on the door, still trying to escape.

He waved a hand in front of their faces as they sobbed, begging for their lives, but he seemed to be invisible to them, just as he always was with the boy. He went to step down into the basement when he felt a hand on his shoulder. With a sudden rush of air, Stiles found himself outside the house, flat on his back and gasping for air.

"Try to relax, Stiles." The voice spoke. Stiles scrambled to his feet, holding his hands out in front of him as he tried to locate the source of the voice. He was alone in the field. He looked around, frantically searching when he realized that time had stopped. The flames around the house were still, the smoke had paused on its way out the windows.

“What’s happening?” he asked, still spinning in circles and looking for the voice.

“You can’t see me yet; it isn’t time for that. I don’t have a lot of time here, Stiles, I need you to listen.”

"Who are you? Why am I here?" He asked. He kept staring at the house, the glow of the boy’s eyes barely visible through the unmoving smoke in the air.

"I’m supposed to guide you when the time is right,” the voice said.

"You didn't answer my question. Why am I here? Why am I having these dreams?"

"They aren't dreams, Stiles. They're visions.”

“Visions, what, so this is actually going to happen?” he asked, unable to keep the doubt out of his voice.

“I’m afraid so, Stiles. But you were given this vision for a reason, you may be able to save them.”

“How? They don’t even know I’m here. I can’t even see their faces,” he yelled, waving his hands wildly.

“Don’t worry about that now, just try to relax. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

Stiles woke up in bed. He stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night, unable to stop thinking about the boy in the basement

* * *

Stiles was sixteen years old when the dreams changed again. 

He was at a party with Scott, but not really _with_ Scott. He had abandoned Stiles an hour ago when his girlfriend Allison showed up. He was probably in some corner staring lovingly into her eyes, completely oblivious to Stiles’ suffering.

He was in the kitchen, sitting on the countertop, one hand poised over his solo cup of water, the other deep inside a bag of potato chips. He was considering getting off the counter to grab some of the gummy bears he’d been eyeing when Derek Hale walked into the room.

He held up a hand in a wave, giving the older boy a small smirk. He had the last bag of chips. He’d stolen them off the table as soon as he claimed his spot. If he had to sit at this party completely sober so Scott could see Allison, he was at least going to snack while he did it. He was surprised when Derek came over to talk to him.

“Hey Derek, I didn’t realize this was your scene,” he said. He held out the bag of chips as an offering. Derek grabbed a few and leaned against the counter next to Stiles.

“It isn’t. I only came because Jackson asked me to,” he said, taking a small sip of the beer in his hand. Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course, Derek was friends with Jackson. They were both perpetually angry and co-captains of the lacrosse team. Stiles still swore that the only reason Jackson got co-captain as a sophomore was because of his dad paying off Coach Finstock.

“Oh, this is Jackson’s party? I knew I smelt something rotting,” Stiles said, laughing at his own joke. Derek surprised him by laughing too.

“Wait, hold the phone, did Derek Hale just laugh? Someone call 911, I think he’s having a stroke.” Stiles grinned at him, ignoring the scowl that immediately crossed Derek’s face.

“Very funny, Stiles, real mature of you,” Derek said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Stiles shrugged and reached for a chip at the same time as Derek. Their fingertips had barely touched when Stiles felt what he could only describe as a literal bolt of lightning enter his body through his fingertips. Before he could make a sound, he was back in front of the burning house.

He was again standing at the front door, only this time, he stuck in place. He could only watch as two men began shoving the shadow-faced family down the stairs. The adults were tied up, hands bound with ropes that almost looked as if they were glowing. As the old man went to shove the last man down the stairs, the man latched onto the old guy's coat, pleading with him.

"You can’t do this, you can’t just kill us for no reason! We’ve followed the code,” the man said, choking on his words as he begged for his life. “Please, let my family go. I’ll do anything, but they don’t deserve this.” The shadow-faced man was holding on to the lapels of his coat. With a roar of disgust, the older man shoved him roughly so he fell backward into the basement. Stiles could hear the man groaning and the sound of footsteps rushing to his side. He watched as the older man spit down towards the family. Then, he pulled a small, red cloth bag from the pocket of his coat.

"Just in case," he said, laughing wickedly. It was a horrible sound that made Stiles hair stand on end. He started pouring a fine, gray powder along the front of the door. Stiles wanted to get closer, to see what he was doing when that same voice spoke in his head.

"It's called Mountain Ash. Its primary use is to keep out werewolves, but it also works as a way to keep them in." Stiles' looked around wildly for the voice, but he was still alone except for the man at the stairs. “I assume you already know about werewolves.” Stiles laughed, exasperated, and threw his hands in the air.

“Of course, I do, you think I didn’t notice when my best friend suddenly grew fangs and tried to kill me? Stop being so fucking cryptic dude, why is he trying to kill an entire family? You said last time that I have to save them, but I don’t even know who they are!” Stiles yelled, finally letting go of the rage that had been pooling in his stomach.

“I wish I could help you, Stiles, but my powers are limited. There are consequences – there are rules I must follow. For now, all I can do is push you in the right direction.” Stiles felt himself being shaken as the basement started to dissolve around him. Sounds of the party rushed back into his ears. He could hear someone talking to him and could feel firm hands on his shoulders as they tried to wake him up. 

Before the vision dissolved completely, the hunched over man finally looked up from the floor. He stood up slowly, turning to face Stiles. Stiles made a horrified sound when he realized he knew the man standing in front of him. He was staring into the face of Allison’s grandfather, Gerard Argent, as he lit the fire that would burn the family alive.

* * *

The very next second, Stiles was back in Jackson’s kitchen. His teeth clacked against each other and he shook his head, confused until he saw Derek in front of him, a concerned frown on his face. He opened his eyes and groaned, immediately closing them again.

“For the love of god, stop shaking me,” he groaned. The hands stilled but didn’t leave his shoulders.

“Stiles, what the hell was that?” Stiles cracked open an eye, squinting up at Derek. The lights were too bright, and his head was aching. He took a second to let the dull ache behind his eyes settle as he adjusted to the fluorescent lights.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, trying to feign innocence. He looked up at Derek and almost laughed as his expression morphed from concern to outrage.

“You literally just _fell asleep while talking to me?”_ he pinched the bridge of his nose as he spoke, obviously annoyed.

“OH, that,” Stiles answered. Derek waited, obviously expecting an explanation. Stiles just looked at him. "Maybe I have narcolepsy."

“You are so weird,” Derek shook his head, dropping his empty beer can on the counter. Stiles tilted his head back and laughed at Derek’s annoyed expression. His eyebrows got so much shorter when he was annoyed and it was truly a sight to behold.

“Seriously,” Stiles looked back at Derek, his laughs falling silent at Derek’s serious expression. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, dude, just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m only here because Scott wanted to come. I might just head home and try to get some sleep.” He slid off the counter, shoving the bag of chips into Derek’s hand.

“I’m gonna go,” he said, walking backwards towards the front hall, “I’ll see you around,” He turned, texting Scott that he was going home and he’d have to get a ride from someone else. He tried to ignore the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach as he drove home, still able to feel Derek’s hands gripping his shoulders.

* * *

It had been two years since his vision had changed. He'd had the same one a few times since then, but he didn't bother waiting for something else to change; he knew he needed to be at least somewhat prepared when they started back up. He had spent every free minute he had since graduation hunched over his computer, reading every article on cryptozoology that he could find. He was constantly listening to at least three police scanners and he had a giant google doc of every instant of arson, housefires, or wildfires that had happened in the last thirty years.

He had also spent the better part of the last two years making sure Scott didn’t kill him or get himself killed by the never-ending stream of supernatural bullshit plaguing Beacon Hills. At this point, he definitely had enough information to write a book, maybe even two.

He had eventually told Scott about his nightmares, hoping he’d be able to help. He was sympathetic, but he was usually too busy working or making love-eyes at Allison to really be of any help.

The vision hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been sitting at his computer, switching between police scanners, and adding notes into his google doc when his eyes rolled back in his head. He felt himself tip backward and out of his chair, only he didn’t hit the floor. He landed in a heap on the front porch of the burning house. He rolled onto his stomach, groaning.

“Yeah, that’s going to bruise,” he said. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He walked towards the front door and opened it. There was no noise in the house and he couldn’t feel the familiar heat from the flames.

He was surprised to see the house look so normal. He had only ever seen it actively burning down, or in the process of being burnt down He walked through the hall until he got to the basement. He wanted to see as much as possible before his vision ended. He never got to properly look around, and he was hoping there would be some sort of clue to the identity of the family. Finding out who he was supposed to save was step number one. Step number two was stopping Allison’s homicidal grandfather from burning them alive in their own home, but he would have to figure that step out later.

He went down in the basement and saw a box full of dusty photo albums.

“Bingo,” he thought, grabbing the first one and flipping it open. Before he could actually look at the photos, someone spoke from behind him.

“Hello, Stiles.”

“Jesus fuck –” Stiles swung around, grabbing his chest. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that, one of these days you’re going to give me a heart attack and then we’d all be – wait, Deaton? What are you doing here?” Stiles stood there, still trying to stop his heart from exploding out of his chest.

"It’s time that we are formally introduced. My name is Alan Deaton. You may know me as Scott’s boss, but I am also the emissary of the Hale pack. It is my job to keep the peace between them and any outside parties.” Deaton’s face was stoic and poised like he’d been rehearsing for days. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Wait, the Hale pack?” Stiles asked, frowning.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Deaton said, in lieu of an actual answer. Stiles waved a hand at him, turning back to the album.

“No offense, but I’ve been working literally 24/7 for the past two years to keep Scott’s furry ass alive, it shouldn’t be that surprising that I know there are other werewolves in Beacon Hills,” he said. Then, he paused, turning back towards Deaton again.

“Gerard is going to kill the Hale’s.” Deaton put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. All at once, the memories of the visions in his head changed. He no longer saw a family with dark, unrecognizable faces. Instead, he saw the Hale’s. He saw Cora crying in Laura's arms at the foot of the stairs, Talia standing over her husband's body, and at the basement window, he saw Derek staring at him, his golden eyes wide with terror as the foundation started to crack. He blinked, unable to shake the image out of his head.

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, or at least be of some help these past few years. There are some things even a druid can’t mess with,” Deaton said. Stiles looked up at him.

Deaton continued, “I was able to figure out how to pull you here so we could talk. There are whispers, it is rumored that the Argent’s plan to strike soon. I could no longer afford to wait to bring you up to speed.”

“Alpha Hale has done extremely well at keeping the business of her pack under the radar, which would normally be a good thing, but considering the circumstances, I’m sure she’d forgive me for speaking out of turn.” Stiles leaned back against the shelf, clutching the thing leather notebook to his chest.

“How do I help them? I can’t just go to Derek’s house and say ‘oh, by the way, I think Gerard Argent wants to burn you alive, maybe we should do something about that.’ They would probably have me arrested. Or institutionalized,” Stiles said. He chewed on his lip.

“I wish it were that simple, but until you can control your powers, I think it’s best that we keep this between the two of us,” Deaton responded. “An unaffiliated Seer in a town as supernaturally charged as this one will raise alarms extremely quickly, so we must be cautious.”

Before Stiles could respond, he felt someone shaking him.

“Oh, come on, just give me a few more minutes!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. Deaton was already starting to dissolve in front of him, but he managed to say one last thing before Stiles woke up.

“Come to my office as soon as possible, we will talk more then. For now, try to be discreet, we really don't need Gerard becoming suspicious.”

With that, Stiles opened his eyes and he was back in his bedroom, lying flat on his back. His dad was standing over him, a worried expression on his face.

“What are you doing?” He asked. He grabbed Stiles’ outstretched hand and helped him back on his feet. Stiles ran a hand over his face and grimaced. He had been drooling.

“I was sleeping,” he said, yawning dramatically to prove his point. His dad looked dubious.

“And you fell out of your chair and somehow didn’t wake up when you hit the floor,” he said. Stiles just shrugged, struggling to keep a blank expression. His dad looked dubious, still.

“Dad, seriously,” Deaton’s warning rang loud in his head, “I just fell asleep. You know me, I can fall asleep anywhere. I stayed up too late at Scott’s and everything has been hectic since graduation, I'm fine, I swear,” He held up three fingers, mimicking the scout’s honor sign.

“Speaking of Scott," Stiles said, starting to gather his things and shove them into his backpack, "he asked me to stop by the clinic. He said something about a weird cat he thought I would like, so I'm gonna head over there, bye dad!” Stiles grabbed his hoodie and phone before all but sprinting out of his bedroom and down the stairs He didn’t wait around for his dad to respond, it wasn’t like he could just explain to his dad that he had to go meet with the veterinarian to learn how to control whatever wack-ass psychic powers he had.

Stiles grabbed the keys to his jeep and walked outside. He started her up and sighed. “Maybe I should go back to therapy.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! if you read my previous fic, i'd love to get your opinion on the changes i made! kudos and comments are always appreciated! :-)


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